


The Science of Sex

by thiliel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Sex, neurochemistry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5746069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiliel/pseuds/thiliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home to find Sherlock 'under the influence' and tries to convince him that there are other ways to stimulate oneself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Sex

Sherlock took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction. Time passed.  
It was a Saturday morning. John came home, shouted a hello and went straight to the shower. He whistled. Probably a succesful date, then. John emerged from the bathroom in his striped bath robe and went to the kitchen to make some tea.  
"Morning, Sherlock", he called.  
"Mhm."  
John turned to look at his flatmate.  
"Did you have a good night?"  
"Hmm."  
"Did a case turn up?"  
"No."  
"Pity." When he got closer, he noticed, besides his usual offhand manner, that Sherlock's pupils were dilated. John felt a surge of rage. "Which is it today?," he asked in a forced conversational tone, "morphine or cocaine?"  
Sherlock raised his eyes to him languidly. "It's cocaine", he said, "a seven-percent solution. Would you care to try it?"  
"No, indeed, I wouldn't," John answered brusquely. He turned to get reinforcement from downstairs. "Let's see what Mrs. Hudson has to say about that."  
Sherlock sat up, alarmed.  
"She did not give you breakfast?"  
"Who? Mrs. Hudson?"  
"No, the woman you spent the night with."  
John stopped dead in his tracks. "How did you... well, nevermind. I don't want to hear it." He continued on.  
"You are mad," Sherlock observed.  
"Yes, I'm bloody well mad at you for wasting your remarkable mind and your health."  
"You're right. I suppose the influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action doesn't matter much."  
"It's not worth it!" John yelled, "Your brain may be turned on, but it's a nasty process, it damages your health permanently. You know that, you're not stupid."  
Sherlock did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.  
"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I hate the dull routine of existence. I need to do something. I need stimulation."  
"I understand that... but there are other ways to stimulate oneself than drugs." John took a step in his direction.  
"Such as?"  
John sat down gingerly in the opposing arm-chair, awkwardly covering the important bits with his robe.  
"Well, you could... go for a walk, read a book... maybe do some sports... just, talk to people in general ... maybe meet, you know, a girl, or a boy, I'm not judging, whatever strikes your fancy, if you..." John stopped himself from rambling on. Sherlock had focused his attention upon him. Now he was not so sure if that was a good thing. He felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his stare and strangely vulnerable clad only in his robes.  
Sherlock uttered a rapid string of words, as if he wanted to get over this part of the conversation quickly. "Walk – no point in it. Book – I have read all the books that I need to and written several. Life is infinitely more vibrant than books. Sports? I do not go in for exercise for the sake of exercise. And as to the last point you suggested, I am not interested in a relationship."  
"But why? Everyone is!", John cried.  
"I am not 'everyone'", Sherlock spat out.  
Presently he continued preparing another shot of cocaine. Overcome with a fit of self-confidence, John took the bottle away from him. He tried very hard not to be intimidated by Sherlock's frown. Sherlock put his hands on his knees in a gesture of false calm. "Give it back," he demanded.  
"No. I want to talk to you."  
"You can talk to me perfectly well without my bottle in your hand."  
"No, I want you to understand, Sherlock." John cleared his throat. "There is a reason for it, you know. It's nice to have ... someone. And sex is... nice." He blushed. "I mean, even from a medical point of view. Your science proves that it has lots of positive effects on the body and mind, none of which are boring. It's healthy... and fun." John paused. "I mean, I don't want to invade your privacy, but I think you should not discard an alternative … unless you've tried it once... or twice..."  
Sherlock settled back into his armchair for a lengthy discourse.  
"Let us 'count the cost', as you suggested earlier. To have sexual intercourse, which you clearly have a high opinion of, in a socially accepted fashion, one would have to perform several rituals. The first one involves going out talking to a person, and I find conversation abhorrently dull if there is no purpose to it. I would have to feign interest in the other person's habits and most people are marvelously uninspired in their habits. I would probably have to pay for dinner or drinks or entrance fees for whatever is a suitable venue for these kind of encounters, plus transportation. When one has undergone all these tedious and expensive customs which society demands, it might eventually lead to intercourse, which, in general, is rather short." He whipped out his mobile phone and considered the data which he called up. "Average intercourse has a duration from three to thirteen minutes. Ergo, I would have to invest several hours worth of tedious conversation and about sixty to seventy pounds or more for paraphernalia and such. The first factor might be eliminated when employing the services of a prostitute, which is socially less accepted. But that would probably amount to the same costs or more, again, for three to thirteen minutes of dubious pleasure. Not to mention the risks of contracting various venereal diseases. Unlike a needle, it is rather hard to disinfect a human body. Now, quality cocaine costs about 42 pounds per gram in the UK," John noticed that he did not have to look that up on the internet, "but my sources, which I will not disclose to you, give me discounts for services rendered. Out of this I create a seven-percent solution which makes for several injections. The alkaloid blocks the reabsorption of several neurotransmitters such as norepinephrine, serotonin and dopamine. Similar neurotransmitters are released during intercourse. The high lasts from 30 minutes to two hours. So on average cocaine it is cheaper and more effective than a date, it stimulates me in a similar but more inexpensive fashion. And most importantly, I am not dependant on social factors, I control when I want it and when I get it. And I want it now."  
With the last words, his tone had changed from light-hearted lecture to ice-cold demand. John felt pinned by his brilliant bright-eyed stare like one of the butterflies on display above their mantelpiece.  
"That's all very well...", John said slowly and carefully, "well-reasoned as usual. But you left out several facts."  
"And which might they be?" Sherlock started to look edgy and annoyed. He threw darting glances at the bottle.  
"The most crucial one is: You can't count love."  
"Oh, please, John. I won't discuss emotions with you."  
"Well, then don't." John got up and threw the bottle in his direction. Sherlock eagerly caught it mid-air and put it down on the table carefully. "Do as you please. Ruin yourself. I won't stand in your way any longer. Go ahead. But pardon me for suggesting that a little natural pleasure is far more stimulating than … this." He waved his hands frantically. "I won't bother to enumerate the long-term damages because you know them already. You know how to disregard facts when it suits you." He turned to storm off to his room. His tea was long forgotten.  
"You are angry again. Why does this affect you so?"  
"Because I care about you, Sherlock!", John shouted, but then he composed himself again. "I'm just saying, it's time that you met someone who sets your head straight, who can actually get through your massively thick head, which has its uses in some respects but sometimes you … you're just incredibly stupid."  
John supressed he urge to stomp his foot, and went quietly to his room and shut the door.  
"I suppose I already met him." Sherlock murmured.

**Author's Note:**

> A little variation on ACD's "The Sign of Four".


End file.
